by Cindy Miles
At least I’m far from her.
Mom beams at me. “Isn’t this great, Ivy? I already love it, don’t you?”
I give Mom a smile, although it feels about as fake as Elizabeth’s looked. “Sure, Mom,” I say. I don’t tell her that my stomach is full of rabid butterflies. Or that I wish Niall would at least show me to my room. I guess he figures I’m mature and can handle it myself. And I can. I will.
Mom waves. “I’ll see you in a bit.” Then Niall whisks her off to show her the kitchen and introduce her to the staff.
I sigh, sling my violin case higher, and start up the stairs. On my way, I get a good look at the ghoulish gargoyle. Its face, fanged and misshapen, stares right at me.
The higher I climb, the darker and colder it becomes, and by the time I reach the third floor, only the scant yellowish light from the wall sconces shines a path across the hardwood hall. A faded rug stretches the length of the corridor. Against the wall halfway to my room sits a lone straight-backed wooden chair. The silence unnerves me.
At the last door on the right, I stop, turn the brass handle, and throw open the heavy oak.
My new room.
I walk in and gape at a space that’s easily as large as our old apartment. My bags have already been brought up and placed neatly against the wall. A mahogany armoire stands in the far corner, and a small writing desk and lamp sit beside the bed. At the foot of the bed is a medieval-looking wooden chest, covered in etchings and bands of iron.
I walk over to the massive bed. The mattress comes up to my waist, and the four mahogany posts nearly reach the ceiling. A gray plaid curtain made of wool hangs on a wooden rod that circles the bed. I can close myself in when I sleep if I want.
I guess it’s nice to have the privacy, alone on the third floor. But then my imagination runs wild again. Someone could slip in at any time and kidnap me. Murder me in my sleep. And no one would even hear me if I screamed….
I try to shake off these thoughts. I walk over to the big picture window beside the fireplace. The same scratchy-looking gray plaid wool not only covers the window seat but is also used for drapes. I push the curtains aside and peer out.
The shadowy cliffs completely drop off into the sea, eerily beautiful. An entire panorama of the west side of Glenmorrag’s grounds can be seen. At the farthest corner, I make out what looks to be a stone ruin, right on the property. Intriguing.
“ ’Tis the old rectory. A fine, cavernous grotto to explore,” a clipped, proper voice says, making me jump.
I spin around to see an old man in a pressed gray suit standing in my doorway. He was one of the servants who took our luggage from the car.
“ ’Twas built in 1789,” he continues, nodding out the window toward the ruin. He must notice I still looked startled by his presence, because one corner of his mouth lifts, and he gives a short bow. “I am Jonas, young lady, and I am Glenmorrag’s steward. Let me know if I can be of any assistance at all. Supper will be served in fifteen minutes. And the toilet — err, the bathroom, as you Yanks call it — is just across the hall. There’s a pantry within. It should contain all necessities.”
“Thanks, Jonas,” I say, relaxing. He seems friendly. Almost grandfatherly.
He winks, and flicks something from his sleeve. “Lady Elizabeth doesn’t fancy waiting. She gets a bit cross when her tummy rumbles.”
I nod. “I can imagine that.” I seriously doubt a rumbling tummy is the only thing that makes Elizabeth cross.
Jonas gives the vaguest of grins, then turns and disappears out the door. I decide I like him. He has a twinkle in his eye that screams rebel to me.
I quickly freshen up in the bathroom, then make my way back down the dim corridor and downstairs for supper.
I’m not sure what I was expecting to find in the dining room, but it wasn’t a long, formal table set with silver and fine china. Niall and Mom are already seated, and Mom gives me a comforting smile. Grandmother MacAllister watches me closely.
“You can take your place there,” she says, inclining her head to a setting.
“Thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and glance around. Four servers are standing behind the table in a line, waiting. For me, I suppose. I can’t believe there is so much fuss over four people eating dinner.
Once I’m seated, the food is served: first a course of bland pea soup, followed by beef tips, seasoned potatoes, and sautéed vegetables. It’s fine, but I want nothing more than to sit with Mom in our tiny kitchen in Charleston and eat a burger and fries. All this formal stuff is too much.
I peer at Elizabeth over the rim of my glass. Her skin is so thin and pale, blue veins peek out from the white face powder she’s applied liberally. She has on a dress and heels. On her index finger I notice an elaborate ruby ring in a square setting, set in gold. It’s the deepest red I’ve ever seen.
I have on the same outfit I traveled in: big sweater, skinny jeans with holes in the knees, sneakers. I can’t help but wonder if Elizabeth will eventually insist I dress for dinner. I hope not.
“Is your room sufficient, Ivy?” Niall asks.
I nod, surprised Niall’s even speaking to me. “Big,” I say after I’ve finished chewing a mouthful of potatoes.
“Aye,” he answers. A moment later he adds, “There’s an enormous maze out back, in the gardens, that you might like.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I nod. “Cool.”
Elizabeth meticulously sets her fork and knife aside, wipes her mouth with the cloth napkin, and turns toward me. I steel myself.
“There are rules here, young lady,” Elizabeth begins. “Rules which you will be expected to obey.” Her frosty gaze locks onto me. “For one, holes in your clothes at the family table are unacceptable.”
Knew it. I shoot a glance at Mom, who looks troubled by this statement.
“And it’s more than clear that you need quite a bit of etiquette training,” Elizabeth adds. Her eyes harden. “Sit up straight.”
I don’t move. The entire room goes silent as a graveyard. I don’t even know how to respond.
“Gran,” Niall says to Elizabeth, surprising me again. “ ’Tis no way to start out with Ivy here. Times have changed, you know,” he coaxes. “Ivy’s fine. Now,” he says, changing the subject, “tell my new bride here of your first days at the castle, aye?”
I look gratefully at Niall, and my mom eases a pleading gaze my way.
I know Mom. She doesn’t like how Elizabeth just spoke to me, but she doesn’t want to make enemies with her, either.
Niall’s question seems to do the trick. The MacAllister matriarch turns her attention to Mom and Niall. I stifle a sigh of relief.
A genuine smile touches Elizabeth’s lips. “ ’Twas the grandest day of my life, the day I first set foot in Glenmorrag,” she says. “The village, with its cobblestones and stone walls and little shops. And this place.” She glances around. “I … couldn’t believe it was mine. The castle needed a woman’s touch, that was for certain. I replaced the tartan fabrics, hired some help, and had it cleaned from top to bottom. At the same time, your grandfather’s distilleries began to do exceedingly well. That’s when I …”
Her voice trails off. And her eyes harden.
“Aye, Grandmother?” Niall urges.
“Nothing. ’Twas a long time ago.” Elizabeth then picks up her fork and knife, and begins to eat, ignoring us all. Niall looks at Mom and gives a slight shrug. Weird. Could she be senile? I wonder. She is really old.
By this time I’ve eaten my fill, so, in my most polite voice, I excuse myself to head back upstairs. I can only take so much of Elizabeth. Mom seems to understand — she blows me a kiss and wishes me good night.
The scream of the wind pushes at the cracks of the castle walls as I hurry to my new room. Once inside, with the door closed, I breathe easier. I decide to unpack before bed. Maybe I’ll feel more settled then.
As I open the armoire, I think about starting at my new school on Monday. I wonder how it’s going t
o be. I’ve gone to school with the same group of kids most of my life. Now I’ll be joining a class in the middle of their semester, or whatever it’s called here. Everyone already has friends. I’m American, so that will probably make me a point of interest. Who knows? I do know I have to wear a uniform, which really bites.
I’m folding my last sweater when the hairs on the back of my neck turn stiff. Suddenly, I hear the moan of a bow being dragged across the strings of a violin. I whip around.
My violin is suspended in midair. I feel my knees go weak and I try to scream but nothing comes out.
My violin is being played in midair by … no one.
I blink. Just that fast, the instrument flies and lands on the bed. I let out a small shriek and rush over to it. I grab the violin and bow and hug them to my chest as I frantically scan the room.
The weighty presence of something lingers, but the room is empty. I even drop to my knees and peek underneath the bed.
Nothing is there. No one. Not even a dust bunny.
But I know what I saw. I jump up and head for the door. I have to tell Mom what just happened. As I fling open the door, though, I find Jonas standing there.
“Miss Ivy, is there something the matter?” he asks. “I heard a scream.”
“I —” I begin, and glance behind me, then back toward Jonas. “I … s-saw something weird,” I finally stammer.
A look of understanding crosses Jonas’s face but it’s quickly replaced by one of concern. “What was it?” he asks. He peers over my shoulder into my room.
I stare at him, unsure of what to say. If I tell him what I saw, I’ll sound like a lunatic. If I tell Mom what I saw, I will as well. She’ll think I’m acting out, trying to find an excuse to go home.
“Are you sure you’re not just overly tired, miss?” Jonas asks. “Jet lag can do strange things to a person.” He gives me a reassuring smile. “I’ll fix you a nice cup of hot tea and bring it straightaway. Tea fixes everything, you know.”
I smile back, feeling my heart rate slow down a bit. “Sure, that sounds great.” Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am just jet-lagged.
As I wait for Jonas to return with the tea, I hover by the door, still a little afraid to go back fully inside the room. But my violin and bow lay innocently on my bed, and the eerie feeling that was here earlier seems to have lifted.
Suddenly, I feel a deep sense of emptiness. It’s not like me to wallow in self-pity. But this new situation is making me realize how utterly alone I am. Mom and Niall are wrapped up in each other. My dad is gone. I have no siblings, grandparents, or even aunts and uncles that I’m close to. My step-grandmother has apparently decided to hate my guts. My friends back home — if I can even call them friends anymore — are an ocean away. I fight the urge to cry. Jonas will be back soon and he doesn’t need to see me sniffling and sobbing.
Within a few moments, he returns with a tray, and on it a pot of steaming-hot tea, a flowery cup and saucer, sugar cubes, cream, and a tiny little spoon. Three thick, rectangular cookies sit upon a frilly napkin. “Here you are, young lady,” he says, placing the tray on my bedside table. “Tea, and some shortbread to go with it. If you should need anything else, my chambers are behind the kitchen downstairs.”
“Thank you,” I say, realizing Jonas is the closest thing I have to a friend right now. “I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure,” he responds, then quietly leaves me alone.
As I sip the tea and chomp on the cookies — shortbread, I remind myself — I do start to feel better. I even get brave enough to walk over to my violin and bow and lift them up, feeling their familiar weight. It was just your imagination, I tell myself.
I take my violin to the window and find a comfortable spot on the window seat. Outside, the Highlands are covered in inky darkness. With a sigh, I drag my bow over the strings and begin to play, improvising. The melody that comes out is soft, yet powerful. The melancholy sound fits my mood as I gaze out into the shadows of the moors.
My eyes pop open. I bolt up in bed, confused.
Remembering.
What had happened in the middle of the night? Was it real? I think back.
I’d lain awake in the huge bed for hours, trying to fall asleep. It seemed as though everything hit me at once — memories of Dad, memories of getting suspended from school for cutting class to play violin at a festival two counties over, memories of Callie and other friends — you name it, I thought about it. I’d also listened to every creak and groan coming through the walls of the castle.
Then, just as my eyes had finally drifted shut, I’d heard it. At least, I think I heard it. So soft, I’d nearly missed it. Could I have even dreamed it? I’m pretty sure I didn’t.
“Begone! Leave here at once!”
My eyes had flashed open. It was a deep, scratchy voice — a guy’s voice — with a thick Scottish accent. The words were so clear it was as if someone had spoken them right into my ear. But how could that be? I got up, turned on the lights, and searched the room, not sure of what I was expecting, but certain something unnatural lurked close by. I never found anything, but the feeling never went away, either.
Finally, I’d fallen asleep.
And now it’s morning. Though it’s not as bright and airy as my home in Charleston was, the castle feels much less gloomy in the light of day. Slipping from the bed, I pull on a pair of jeans, my All Stars, and a thick pumpkin-colored sweater. I also drape my coat over my arm, stuffing my knit hat into the pocket. Maybe I’ll take a walk after breakfast.
When I get downstairs, I run right into Elizabeth coming out of her room.
“You’re late,” she says, and her jaw tightens. “I will not tolerate late.”
I stare at her, speechless. “For — for breakfast? I … didn’t know there was a specific time —”
“There’s always a specific time,” Elizabeth interrupts. Although she’s petite, in her black heels, we are eye to eye.
So quickly I almost miss it, Elizabeth’s cold eyes change. In color? Or size? Something undefined about them shifts.
Whatever it is, it’s … frightening.
“And you’d best not be late again.” Elizabeth lowers her voice. “Or else.”
I recoil, mostly out of shock that she’s being so harsh. The corner of her mouth lifts in a grin that reminds me of one of the gargoyles’, and she turns and struts to the dining room.
Did Elizabeth MacAllister, who might be close to a hundred, just threaten me?
“Lost, miss?”
I jump at this new voice. A young maid stands near me, looking at me with wide, questioning eyes.
“Ah, no,” I respond. “Just headed to the dining room. Thanks, though.”
The maid gives a nod, and I cross the great hall. When I push through the swinging oak doors, everyone is seated. Waiting.
Great. I slip into my seat. As we eat, Niall and Mom discuss their plans for their day — taking care of things around the house — and Elizabeth is silent. Stone-faced. I make short work of the eggs, sausage, and toast, then announce that I’m stepping outside to go explore the grounds. Mom and Niall wave to me, and I’m relieved to escape Elizabeth’s withering gaze.
The minute my feet crunch against the gravel outside, I startle the peacocks, and their high-pitched screeching pierces the air. The sound rattles me clear to my bones. The birds peer angrily at me from the treetops, and I quickly change my course. Who knows if they’ll charge and peck me to death? I head across the big stretch of grass — the courtyard — until I reach another path that leads to the old rectory I saw from my window.
I button up my coat, and slip in my iPod earbuds, cranking up the volume on an Emilie Autumn song. The cold air makes my breath puff out like white smoke. Behind me, Glenmorrag Castle looms. I can picture the gruesome little gargoyles watching me as I walk.
Soon, the rectory comes into view, and my heart quickens. What clearly used to be a grand arched entrance is now a yawning black mouth, the old gray stone s
wallowed up by vines and vines of gnarled, twisted ivy. I think it looks sort of beautiful. I’ve always loved ivy — not least of all because it’s my name.
It’s not until I duck inside and glance up that I notice the roof isn’t really a roof at all. The wood has rotted away, and the entwined ivy has formed a lattice covering. Hazy light and mist filters in between the vines.
“Hello?” I say aloud, and instantly admire the acoustics in the old building. I can’t wait to bring my strings in here. I turn off the music on my iPod, and I try the echo out once more. “Helloooo …”
“Leave here at once!”
My heart stops. It’s that voice from last night. The one I heard as I was falling asleep. I’m sure of it. Adrenaline races through my body, and I look in every dark, shadowy corner but find nothing. Just me, standing in a cavernous, musty rectory more than two centuries old.
Then the ivy moves.
Slowly, the aged boughs begin to untwine and stretch toward me, like long, knobby witch’s fingers. I’m certain it must just be a play of the dim light.
Until one lifts a piece of my hair.
I scream.
“Leave this place or you shall die!” the voice says. It’s real.
I run straight out of the rectory, and nearly collide with another body. I look up, gasping. I realize how hard I’m trembling.
I see a tall gardener in scruffy brown clothes and boots. Crystal-blue eyes set in a weathered face look curiously at me. His hat sits crooked on his head. He’s holding a small shovel, and he has a pair of old gloves stuffed in his pockets.
“What’s the hurry, lass?” he asks in a gruff voice.
“In there,” I say, catching my breath. “Vines.”
Bending his head toward the rectory, he looks inside, and shifts his weight.
“Aye, there’s a heap of them in there. Watch yourself. You dunna know what sort of dangers you might encounter at Glenmorrag.”
And with that, he turns and disappears around the building, his large rubber boots crunching the dead leaves as he goes.